Mademoiselle Gigi

Chapter 1- Calm Before the Storm

Prologue: September 1945-Paris

Gigi giggled at the image of herself in the full-length mirror, arching her back and sticking out her stomach as if she were nine months pregnant, dressed in her white silk wedding gown.

      “More champagne, please,” Gigi said, extending her glass for a refill. “Merci, maybe I should just wear a pillow under my dress and waddle down the aisle.”

      “Gigi, you can’t stop tongues from wagging,” Maman said. “People are going to talk if you marry an American soldier after knowing him just two months.”

      “I would have married Gerald after two days,” Gigi said. “It was love at first sight.”

      She felt herself becoming a little tipsy from the champagne, but took another sip anyway, counting on the bubbly to steady her nerves. In the mirror, she admired the intricate details of her wedding veil made from tulle fabric that trained to the floor and was crowned with white satin roses. She touched the delicate lace sleeves and bodice of the gown with the tiny hand sewn pearls that were stony cold. The air was lightly perfumed with the fragrance of Chanel and bouquets of lilacs.

      Today was her wedding day and Gigi believed she was the luckiest girl in France. She was surrounded by the women she loved most, her best friends Renée, Corinne and Marcelle, and her beloved, Maman. How would she ever live without these dear women?

      The sudden announcement of her wedding had surprised everyone and flamed gossip. Some said the reason for the hasty ceremony was a bun in the oven, but Gigi would disappoint the gossips. She had saved herself for her wedding night and figured those clucking hens were probably jealous because if the truth were known, they would have jumped at the chance to marry an American soldier. Young girls from all over France were marrying American GIs and immigrating to the United States. Everybody said she was fortunate to be leaving war-torn France, and it seemed like the right decision because she had fallen deeply in love with her Cajun from Louisiana.

      Gerald Bertrand was a sweet, loving man who adored the ground Gigi walked. He was unlike most Frenchmen. He had American movie star good looks with thick brown hair and soft brown eyes and was a few inches taller than Gigi. She adored his soft face with a baby’s creamy complexion. He had an easy going manner and was soft-spoken. Gerald was proud of his native land and relished telling Gigi the lore of family, friends and his pastime of hunting and fishing. Gigi believe Louisiana was an exotic paradise, and the people even spoke French.

      Gerald proclaimed he was a self-made man, boasting he owned a construction business and his own home on what he called a bayou, a Louisiana lake. Gigi had seen the glamorous Hollywood movies and knew with certainty all Americans lived rich, glamorous lives. Soon, she would be living the American dream. No more rationing, long queues or shortages of everyday goods. No more postwar depression, strife or bitter memories of the war. There would be abundance and plenty of riches for all. Beginning a new life with Gerald in Opelousas, Louisiana, away from the postwar devastation of Europe, would be a fantasy come true.

      Gigi had experienced overwhelming loss during the war and, by immigrating, would be losing more family. Perhaps Papa and Maman would quit their lives in Paris to move to America one day. They had actually discussed the possibility after Papa had offered her future husband a position in the aircraft parts factory, where her father was a financial executive. Gerald had turned Papa down.

      “What kind of life are you going to have with that cowboy?” Papa blustered.

      “Papa, Gerald isn’t a cowboy,” Gigi moaned.

      “Why does my only daughter have to move halfway around the world?” Papa said, whining to anyone who would listen.

       Papa was desperate and tried a different ploy, trying to entice Gerald with the opportunity of managing his black market business, but he adamantly refused, insisting Louisiana was where his heart would always be. Gerald further maddened Papa by continually using the informal tu instead of vous. After Gigi explained to Papa that everybody in Louisiana uses the informal tu, he calmed down, but she could not take her father’s rants. She honored her father’s wishes all her life, but her love for Gerald trumped her father’s disapproval of him.

      Gigi clowned by putting a strip of black newsprint across her front teeth.

      “Aren’t I a beautiful bride?” Gigi said with a wide grin. The room rang with female giggles and laughter.

      “I’m sure Gerald loves your sense of humor,” Marcelle said. “How did you meet him?”

      “It was two months ago,” Gigi said. “Maman and I were walking Pock, and we passed in front of a movie theater. I literally ran into Gerald as he and his army buddy came out of the theater. I knew right away he was an American soldier because of his uniform, but I was surprised when he introduced himself to us in perfect French, overlaid with a Cajun accent. I introduced Maman as my cousin. I didn’t want him to think I needed a chaperone.”

      “You used to tell young men at the dances in Lyon the same thing during the war,” laughed Marcelle. “Your mother could easily pass as your cousin.”

      “It was a few weeks before she told Gerald the truth,” Maman said. “He didn’t seem to mind. Americans are so casual and easygoing.”

      “Gerald asked if we wanted to go to a dance at a musette. So, the four of us went to the dance, including Pock. Gerald’s a very good dancer. Everybody learns to dance in Louisiana from the age of being in diapers. I was literally swept off my feet. He works as a translator in the army and speaks to American and French generals. In his free time, I loved showing Gerald the parks and gardens of Paris and taking long romantic walks along the Seine. We’ve rarely been apart, except when Gerald has to do translation for the army.

       “Does he speak French like Molière?” asked Marcelle.

      “He’s been translating for two years,” Gigi said. “So he speaks French perfectly, but every once in a while, he slips back into his Louisiana dialect. Then he talks like an old farmer from the provinces. He told me he seldom speaks English in Louisiana�"everybody speaks French.”

      “Does he have a wealthy handsome brother I can meet?” Renée asked eagerly.

      “I’ll let you know if there’re any,” Gigi said. “He did tell me has a brother who hunts alligators.”

      “No thanks!” Renée said. “I don’t want an alligator wrestling husband.”

      Pock jumped up on the chest at the foot of Maman and Papa’s bed and offered Gigi his paw, even though she had not asked to shake hands with him at all. Gigi could not stand to think of life without him in America.

      “Why did you and Gerald decide to get married so quickly?” asked Marcelle. “You’ve barely known each other.” Marcelle’s question irritated Gigi, but she decided to let it go. It was her special day, and no one was going to cast doubts in her mind about Gerald. She bit her lip and answered politely.

      “His army division is being sent back to America in three weeks,” Gigi said. “He proposed marriage at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Of course, I said yes. When we talked about the arrangements for the ceremony, I was determined to share my wedding day with my family and friends in Paris. We’ve been through so much together since we were young girls.”

      “It seems like just yesterday we were young warrior princesses on the streets of Paris, rescuing the defenseless,” Renée quipped. “Remember the young Jewish boy we saved from being attacked by those bullies?”

      “Yes, I was so naïve and innocent back then,” Gigi said, reflectively. “I was like that little girl and her dog swept up by a tornado in Kansas. What was her name?”

      “Do you mean Dorothy and her little dog, Toto?” Corrine said.

      “Yes, just like Dorothy and Toto in The Wizard of Oz,” Gigi said, laughing. “Zut, nobody ever gave me a pair of ruby slippers.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1 Paris, June 1940, Calm before the Storm

 

The early June summer day was already like the hot languid days of August. After school, Gigi and her friends, Renée and Corinne, enjoyed rambling through the streets of the 13^th arrondisement of Paris, leisurely visiting with friends and neighbors. Suddenly, the air raid sirens wailed, echoing through the neighborhood as a formation of silver bomber planes flew overhead in the cloudless blue skies. Were they German? Were they French? Gigi and her friends didn’t stop to ponder the question on the street. The girls scampered to the nearest metro station to take shelter.

      After an hour, officials determined the skies were friendly and issued the all clear. A few neighborhood ladies, with their hair tied in scarves and dragging small children, exited the underground metro station. Parisians found the war to be annoying and disruptive to their daily routines, but not a real threat.

      “Ooh là là, I had a nice cake ready to take out of the oven,” complained a fat woman to a friend. “It’s probably burned to a crisp.”

      “Where do you buy the sugar�"the black market?” asked her friend eager to know the details of the supplier of the forbidden goods.

      Gigi and friends climbed the stairs to the street level and continued down the boulevard with no definite destination in mind. In a side street, a gang of surly school boys surrounded a young boy lying on the sidewalk, bleeding from many cuts on his bare arms and legs. A cocky twelve year old�"a patchwork of angry scars across his face�"had tripped the child, kicking him as he fell on the concrete with textbooks scattering around him.

       Scar Face choked the young boy, lifting him off his feet by his necktie. He fished around in the young boy’s pockets and extracted a few coins and francs. Scar Face smiled when his eye caught the glint of a gold chain that hung inside the young boy’s shirt. He snapped the chain that held a crucifix, holding it up for his gang to view.

      “Merde!” Scar Face said. “Why’s a kike wearing a crucifix?”

      “I’m Catholic,” the young boy said, choking.

      “So you’re a half-breed, a métis, a dirty métis,” Scar Face said. “You dirty Jews think you can hide in our churches�"you’re not fooling anyone�"I can smell a dirty rotten Jew a mile away.”

      Gigi saw the crowd of boys out of the corner of her eye, and then she heard the young boy’s cries for help. In a flash, she dashed to rescue him, followed by her friends.

      “Put him down, now!” Gigi demanded, pressing close to Scar Face, but barely rising above his pimply chin.

      “Go play with your dollies, little girl,” Scar Face sneered.

      For Gigi, being called a little girl was the worst insult.

      “Go back to the cave you crawled out of!” Gigi screamed. Her china blue eyes narrowed, and she began kicking and punching Scar Face, delivering some good blows.

      Scar Face’s friends covered their mouths, sniggering. Scar Face became enraged and his facial scars turned purple-red. He shoved Gigi, landing her flat on her back and knocking her breathless. The wind blew loose strands of Gigi’s thick wavy auburn tresses in her face, much to her annoyance. Sturdy and confident, her friend, Renèe, helped her to her feet.

      “Are you okay, Gigi?”

      “Yes,” Gigi said, brushing the dirt off the backside of her school uniform. “But this one’s going to be sorry.”

      Renée sidled up to Scar Face, “You’re going to wish you’d never been born.” Scar Face still held the young boy by his necktie, his feet just touching the ground. Scar Face turned to throw a punch at the second interfering girl, but at the same moment, Renée spun her body around with all her force, like an Olympian discus thrower, using her book bag as a weapon. The bag, aimed at Scar Face’s head, was laden with six thick textbooks plus metal woodworking tools. The considerable force met the side of Scar Face’s head with considerable force, knocking him off his feet to the concrete. He dropped the young boy as he went down.

      The other bullies were wide-eyed and open-mouthed. They backed up, leaving their battered leader on the ground.

      “We didn’t touch that kid�"we were only playing,” the gang gabbled.

      “Do you want some of this?”  Renée asked the toughs with a wild look in her eye. The boys turned around and strode down the sidewalk without looking back. Scar Face rose to his feet, whimpering and holding the side of his head with his badly scraped hand. He looked drunk, weaving in small circles. Scar Face muttered some vitriolic words, but bile dribbled down his chin when he spoke. He staggered down the sidewalk, imploring his friends to wait for him, but the gang of boys had rounded the corner and disappeared.

      “My name is Gigi. We’re going fix you good as new.” Gigi put her arm around the shivering shoulders of the young boy. “These are my friends, Renée and Corinne.”

      “I’m David . . . Goldman,” the young boy said with a quivering voice.

      “I’ll stay with David,” Gigi said. “Go find some bandages from the school nurse.”

      Renée raced down the sidewalk like a gazelle, followed by Corinne.

      Gigi dabbed at David’s cuts and bruises with a dainty handkerchief. It was soon blood-soaked.

      “Why did those boys attack you?” Gigi asked.

      “This isn’t the first time,” David said, “with a name like Goldman . . . .”

      “I understand,” Gigi soothed, “more than you know.”

      Renée and Corinne returned shortly with some clean towels, bandages and antiseptic.

      Gigi, kneeling by David’s side, mothered the young boy. She cleansed his bruised and bleeding hands and knees, wrapping the wounds with long bandage strips.

      “Feeling better, mon ami?” Gigi comforted.

      “Yes, thanks.”

       When Gigi finished, she picked up the crucifix on the broken chain from the sidewalk and handed it back to David.

      “Why do you wear a crucifix if you’re Jewish?” asked Gigi.

      “My father is Jewish and my mother is Catholic. It’s funny. They believed I would have an easier life if I was raised Catholic.”

      Gigi swallowed hard on David’s words. Although Gigi was baptized Catholic, her parents were Jewish. It was a common practice of Jews who had emigrated from Eastern Europe to baptize their children in the Catholic faith to help them assimilate into French society. Gigi suspected her family heritage was being scrutinized by the scholarship committee. In the past week, the school had requested her baptismal certificate.

      “If those bullies give you any more problems, just come see me,” Renée said, placing a hand on David’s shoulder. “I’ll send them flying over the moon.”

      David thanked the teenage girls and hobbled down the sidewalk, wearing his broken glasses with only one intact lens.

      “Those devils make me so mad,” Gigi said. “It wouldn’t do any good to report them.”

      Gigi’s hair was still in disarray. Renée secured her friend’s long hair off her face with a blue ribbon, accenting Gigi’s prominent cheekbones. She had the fine nose and full lips that embodied the beauty of her Slavic Russian heritage. The schoolgirl uniform combined with her petite size made Gigi look younger than her fourteen years, but she was eager for the magic that would one day transform her into a woman.

      “You were great . . . a real tigress,” Renée said.

      “That guy was so ugly, he could make blind kids cry,” Gigi said. “I thought you were going to knock his noodle off.”

      “I’m a warrior princess,” Renée quipped.

      Renée wasn’t a beauty, but she was blessed with feminine curves and could easily pass for a woman of eighteen, even though she was only fourteen.

      “I was so afraid,” admitted Corinne, holding back tears.

      “Corrine, you’re such a baby,” Renée said.

      Corinne was fair and timid as a mouse. She was average in school and usually parroted the opinions of her mother to the point of ignorance. Kindness to animals was her best quality. Corinne had a home zoo of exotic birds, fish, a cat, and two dogs, which she loved and tended.

      “What does the word métis mean?” Gigi asked.

      “It’s a vulgar word that means half-breed,” Renée said. “Stupid people use the word against those suspected of being Jewish.”

      “A lot of people blame the war on the Jews,” Corinne said. Gigi knew Corinne was repeating a conversation heard between her parents. She had seen anti-Semitic posters on shop windows and cartoons in newspapers. She remembered a conversation in the boulangerie a few weeks ago, when she overheard people blaming the damn Jews for the deep divisions in the Third Republic. She had kept silent. In the past few years, attacks on Jews were more frequent and many people labeled all Jews as communists.

      Gigi was tired of keeping her secret from her best friends. The truth of the matter was her family was Jewish. Gigi had never spoken of her Jewish heritage to her friends. What had she been so afraid of? It was time to speak the truth, because remaining silent was a lie.

      “I’m Jewish,” Gigi said, looking her friends straight in the eyes. “I don’t know why I never told you this before, but now you know.”

      It was a relief to tell the truth. Gigi watched her friends for any signs of a negative reaction.

      Renée shrugged as if Gigi had said she preferred drinking tea over coffee.

      “That’s nice, but it has nothing to do with our friendship,” Renée said. “We don’t care if you’re Jewish or Catholic or if you worship Jean Gabin.”

      Corinne nodded her head in agreement.

      “I think I have a Jewish uncle, too,” Corinne said. Gigi knew Corinne’s feeble lie was her way of saying she accepted her.

      “We are going to be best friends for life,” Renée said with conviction.

      “Let’s go to Chez Nelly’s,” Gigi said. “I feel like celebrating�"my treat.”

      “Great idea!” Renée said. “The place is overflowing with cute boys.”

      “I’d better watch the time,” Gigi said, looking at her watch. “Pepère and I were planning to meet after school, but he’ll pass by Chez Nelly’s.”

      On the busy boulevard, cars and buses spewed diesel fumes on the humid June afternoon, and the sun warmed their backs. They chatted about school and the scholarships that would be awarded at tomorrow’s end-of-the-year school assembly.

      “Gigi, you’re a cinch to win the scholarship to the Academy des Beaux Arts,” Renée said.

      “I’m the last girl the committee would choose,” Gigi said, holding back a smile. “I’m sure Lorraine Guilbeau will win.”

      “No way! Her paintings look as if they’ve been painted in motor oil,” Renée said.

      Actually, Madame Delacourt, Gigi’s art school teacher, had informed her two weeks ago she was in the running to receive the full scholarship to the Academy, but she also knew the board was reviewing prospective applicant’s religious history carefully. Tomorrow, the winners would be announced in front of the entire school at the end of the year awards ceremony.

      “You’re lucky you don’t live in Germany,” Corinne said. “Jews aren’t even allowed to attend school there.”

      “I’m sure you heard that from your mother,” Renée chided.

      “You’re right, Corinne,” Gigi said. “I’m lucky to live in France, where Jews are treated fairly. Do you really think I have chance of winning?”

      “I know one day the name of Gigi Carriton will be famous. Then I can say I knew you when you used to beat up school bullies,” Renée said with a wink.

      Art was Gigi’s passion. She was already an advanced student in figurative drawing, oil painting, sculpting, and painting murals. Her art teachers had encouraged her and praised her budding talent.

      Now, the girls strolled down the Boulevard Saint-Marcel, arm-in-arm, greeting familiar faces and even strangers, passing facades of Haussmann-style buildings.

      “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Gigi, how’s your Pepère?” inquired the corpulent butcher, Monsieur Stein. He wore a blood-stained apron while hanging meaty chickens upside down in his store window. Gigi’s nostrils were assaulted by the smell of fresh blood.

      “Pepère is fine, Monsieur Stein,” Gigi said brightly. “I’m meeting him in the Jardin des Plants this afternoon. Can I deliver a message?”

      “Tell him hello. I’ve set aside a nice beef roast for him,” Monsieur Stein said. “It would make the Pope jealous. I’ll give him a break on the ration tickets.”

      “I promise I won’t tell the Pope,” Gigi said, waving goodbye, “Au revoir.”

      The girls admired the designs in a boutique window displaying the latest Parisian fashions, oblivious of the increasing traffic on the boulevard. The city was swelling by the hour with refugees from as far away as Holland and Belgium, fleeing the Nazi blitzkrieg. Meanwhile, the newspapers and radio stations reported that French soldiers were gaining success on the frontlines, lulling Parisians to feel safe and secure. The censored communications, supported by the Reynaud government, were designed to prevent public panic. As a result, most Parisians went about their daily routine without regard of the war.

      A long convoy of brownish-green army vehicles passed by the friends and then came to a standstill. The engines idled noisily as the girls meandered down the sidewalk. Gigi felt a surge of pride in her chest, seeing the valiant troops heading to the front. The young soldiers were dressed in fresh uniforms, berets cocked over one side of their foreheads.

      Gigi tittered, “Ils sont beaux.”

      Many called out to them. “Hello, my beauties,” said one. “Come give a poor soldier a hug and a kiss before he dies,” chimed another. “Come here, my little poupée,” entreated a third.

      One tall young soldier enticed the girls to approach the truck. He looked at Gigi and Corinne, but settled his attentions on Renée, staring at her developing cleavage. As Renée conversed with the tall soldier, Gigi joked with the other soldiers.

      “What does Hitler eat for breakfast?” she asked with a sly look.

      “Merde,” answered a soldier.

      “Luffewaffles,” Gigi said.

      The soldiers roared with laughter, encouraging Gigi to tell more jokes.

      Gigi observed Renée with side glances, talking to the tall soldier with animated hand gestures. After a few minutes, Renée gave the tall soldier a friendly hug and kissed him twice on both cheeks. The convoy’s engines roared back to life and continued down the boulevard. Gigi and Corinne waved goodbye, and Renée rejoined them, wearing a secret smile.

      “Renée, did you know that soldier?” asked Corinne.

      “No, but he’s a dream,” Renée said.

      “The soldiers told us they’re on their way to Belgium. I think they mentioned Dunkirk,” Gigi said. “You seemed to be getting on well. What did your guy say?”

      “He asked if I was babysitting,” Renée said.

      “What?” Gigi said, annoyed. “We’re all the same age.”

      “You asked,” Renée said. “We exchanged addresses, and I’ve already memorized his.”

      “Are you going to write him?” asked Gigi.

      “You bet,” Renée said. “It’s our duty to support our soldiers.”

      “He was gorgeous and, oh, so tall,” Gigi said, twinkling.

 

The girls arrived at Chez Nelly’s with its distinctive green and white canvas awnings. They chose to eat on the al fresco patio, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine of the sunny day. Gigi sat at a table with a clear view of the street to keep watch for Pepère. She browsed a menu, perusing the flavors of sorbets. The patio filled with patrons. The waiters, dressed in crisp white shirts, bow ties, black pants, and long white aprons, flew around the patio, balancing the orders on large trays. A handsome waiter, wearing too much cologne, came to the table and took their orders. He returned momentarily, carrying a round platter with three tall bell-shaped glasses with two lime sorbets and a peach one for Gigi.

      “Voilà, Mesdemoiselles,” the waiter said, winking at Gigi and arranging the creamy confections on the table before them.

      “Merci,” the girls chimed.

      The three friends didn’t hesitate to devour the sweet, swirling sorbets, only pausing to tidy the corners of their mouths with cloth napkins.

      “Look, there’s Henri from my math class. I want to invite him to my birthday party,” Renée said, tasting a spoonful of her sorbet.

      “Oh, please do, Renée,” Corinne begged.

      Gigi and Renée looked at each other in surprise and then looked at Corinne staring dozily at Henri.

      “Somebody’s got a crush,” Gigi and Renée sang.

      “It’s true,” Corinne said. “I’d like to fall in his arms.”

       A look of horror came across Renée’s face, and she quickly hid behind a menu.

      Renée slouched down in her chair. “There’s Madame Busybody with her army of old nags. Hide me.”

      “What’s her real name?” asked Gigi.

      “Her name is Devenpeck,” Renée said.

      “What peck?” Gigi said.

      “I think her husband is Dutch,” Renée said. “She’s a witch.”

      “She already spotted you,” Gigi said. “She’s coming to our table.” A middle-aged, frumpish woman lumbered up to the table, followed by her contingent of pious ladies. A mixture of lilac water and mothballs invaded the air.

      “Holy Mother of God, it’s tall Renée,” Madame Devenpeck said, her frizzy head jerking from side to side. “I think you’ve grown a foot since I last saw you a few months ago.” Her close-set eyes, framed in old-fashioned eyewear, were searching the girls up and down as if she were a chicken looking for a worm.

      “Hello, Madame Devenpeck,” Renée said wearily.

      “Renée will probably be a spinster. Men don’t like tall strong girls,” Madame Devenpeck told her ladies. “Renée, you should become a nun. Be sensible. You should give up any notion of marriage.”

      Gigi said on cue, “Renée, I love that necklace you’re wearing. Isn’t that a gift from your Spanish lover, Carlos?”

      “Oh yes, he lavishes me with pretty things all the time,” Renée chirped. “The boy is absolutely mad about me.”

      Madame Devenpeck, choking and coughing, extracted a lace hanky from between her sagging bosoms. She leaned in for a closer view of Renée. Gigi knew exactly what the old hag was doing. Madame Devenpeck was looking for the tell-tale signs of Renée being with a man. Gigi would wager a bet that Madame Devenpeck had only been with her husband, a conjugal duty she probably abhorred.

      “Spanish lover?” Madame Devenpeck spluttered. “Does your mother know about this?”

      Madame Devenpeck didn’t wait for a reply but commenced a diatribe about the corruption of today’s wanton young girls. “Paris is full of these young trollops, wearing make-up, dressing immodestly and acting like debauched rabbits. I’m telling you one thing. I’m not going to run the streets half-naked. I’m keeping my morals!”

      “The men of Paris will be relieved to know they’re safe,” Gigi said with spirit.

      Gigi was transfixed as Madame Devenpeck’s goiter slid up and down her jowly throat like a freight elevator as her monologue rambled on. The girls snorted and choked, trying to contain their laughter while tears flowed in rivulets down their cheeks. Madame Devenpeck noticed the insolence and became indignant.

      “Well, I can see you girls are a lost cause,” Madame Devenpeck huffed. “Renée, tell your mother to call me. My ladies of the Daughters of Charity are on a mission for a sacred cause. We’ve been supporting the Catholic Church’s endeavor to certify, by the Vatican, the Holy Mother Eugenia’s miraculous conversations with God. I’ll be expecting full participation from your mother.”

      Madame Devenpeck spun around and left the table, the Daughters of Charity trailing in her wake. She created a minor scene by calling on the owner of Chez Nelly’s. Madame Devenpeck loudly protested, to no avail, the seating arrangements for the Daughters of Charity, who had been seated next to the smelly garbage cans.

      “What do you think causes that throat to bounce up and down like that?” Renée asked.

      “Maybe she swallowed a squirrel,” Gigi offered and all three girls roared again.

      “Where did you ever come up with my Spanish lover, Carlos?” asked Renée. I thought Madame Devenpeck’s eyes were going to pop right out of her head.”

      “I wasn’t going to let old Madame Chicken-Peck put you down,” Gigi said.

      Renée and Corinne laughed so hard at Gigi’s imitation of Madame Devenpeck’s chicken-like head movements that their eyes spurted tears like Angel Falls.

      Gigi saw Pepère, walking Pock in the distance, followed by a league of small children.

      “Look at all those kids,” Corinne said, wide-eyed. “They adore your Pepère.”

      Pock was feverishly straining on his leash to reach Gigi, wagging his tail excitedly.

      “Your dog is so cute,” said a lady at the next table. “What kind of dog is he?”

      “He’s a mutt,” Gigi said proudly, “but mostly rat terrier.” Gigi jumped out of her chair to greet Pepère.

      “Pepère, I’m so happy to see you,” Gigi said, kissing him on both cheeks and hugging him.

      Pepère turned and greeted Renée and Corinne, sharing hugs and kisses, their usual custom over the years.

      “I see you’re the Pied Piper today,” Gigi said, waving her arm like a magician’s assistant before the children.

      Pepère turned to address the little ones. “If you meet me in the park at five o’clock, I promise to do a magic show for you. There will be a surprise treat in store for all who are good.”

      “We promise we’ll be good,” a red-headed boy with freckles said, clapping his hands.

      “Now go to the park. I’ll be there by five o’clock,” Pepère said, looking at his pocket watch.

      The children hugged and kissed, in order, Pepère, Gigi, Renée, and Corinne goodbye.  A dark-haired little girl in a floral print dress stooped down and kissed Pock on the top of his head.

      “Bye, bye, Pock. See you later.” She then ran after her friends on baby fat legs.

      Renée turned to Gigi. “I need to get home before Madame Devenpeck calls my mother.”

      “Madame Chicken-Peck won’t get you in trouble?” asked Gigi.

      “No, my mother will have a good laugh,” Renée said. “I just know that old witch is going to call, though.”

       The friends kissed and parted company, promising to phone each other later to discuss the details of Renée’s birthday party.

      “Don’t forget to have your mother call me,” Madame Devenpeck brayed like a peasant farmer from across the open air patio of Chez Nelly’s. Patrons at nearby tables shuddered and rolled their eyes.

      Renée and Corinne walked on as if they were deaf and mute.

 

      Leaving Chez Nelly’s, Gigi was proud to stroll with Pepère, arm-in-arm, through the neighborhood. Gigi often bragged he was the best grandfather in the world. Their after-school ritual of meeting in the Jardin des Plants had begun when Gigi first had begun school as a little girl. In Gigi’s mind, no man could ever replace Pepère, not even Papa.

      “Pepère, Monsieur Stein the butcher said hello, and to tell you he has put aside a nice beef roast for you,” Gigi said, “and he’s going to give you a break with the ration tickets.”

      “Speaking of food, today I taught Pock not to beg at the table,” Pepère said.

      “How did you do that?”

      “I let him eat my cooking.”

      “Oh, Pepère,” Gigi laughed, squeezing his arm.

      Pepère, like most men of his generation, always dressed in wool suit and tie. A beret or fodora covered his head�" even during sweltering summertime temperatures. He often walked with a carved wooden cane made by his own hand. Gigi had inherited his twinkling blue eyes, thick hair and ever-smiling face.

      Pepère was teased by his buddies, Loup and Souri, for speaking French with a noticeable Russian accent, despite having lived in Paris since he was eighteen. They called him Shiker and often asked, “how about a shot of vodka, commissar?” Pepère, who never drank vodka, would reply to his buddies, “Ah bon, you bums are so full of alcohol, if I put wicks in your mouths, you would burn for three days.”

 

Passing through the ornate wrought-iron gates of the Jardin des Plants, Gigi, Pepère and Pock entered another world. Gigi’s senses were immediately calmed in the tranquil oasis. She was always dazzled by the deluge of colors, the perfumed scents and the variety of fauna and flowers. Birds of every size and color crossed their path and filled the park with cacophony of aviary calls.

      An exotic colorful bird flew onto a branch close enough to touch. They stood perfectly still, posed like statues before the bird. Its array of jewel-tone feathers shone brilliantly in the sunlight.

      “Listen, that one is calling for its mate,” Pepère whispered. In a moment, from another part of the garden, the call was answered. Gigi liked to imagine she and Pepère were explorers in the thick jungles of the Amazon rain forests.

      Pock wandered the twisting paths of the perfumed garden ahead of Pepère and Gigi. He lifted his chin to sniff the sweet air, and his large ears stood straight up. His attention was captured by a rustle of leaves and the blur of a mysterious woodland creature in the tall greenery. He dove into the dense foliage and a series of barks followed, giving notice who was master of the garden.

      Gigi ran after Pock, but changed directions, distracted by hummingbirds darting and sipping nectar from tall spikes of blue Salvia.

      “My little butterfly, you’re making me dizzy,” Pepère laughed. “You’ve always been like a bee or butterfly.”

      “I adore the garden, especially with you.”

      Gigi explored further into the garden momentarily disappearing from Pepère’s sight. The area she encountered was unchartered territory. It was a water garden that looked like being in the watery delta of Louisiana, which she recalled from pictures in geography textbook. The air was cooler and the vegetation was thick with yellow iris, exquisite bird of paradise and white calla lilies. Gigi paused to listen to the soft soothing sound of water trickling over rocks into a placid clear pond. The moist thick air smelled fetid and drenched her skin.

      “Pepère, I’m over here.”

      Pepère caught up with Gigi, circling by the tranquil pond, its surface filled with round green lily pads with pointy white flowers. Frogs launched themselves off the lily pads as they approached. Gigi delighted in hearing the plopping sounds of the fleeing amphibians.

      “Let’s take a rest. Your grandfather’s feet are on fire.”

      “Off with your shoes�" take a dip in the pond,” Gigi taunted.

      “Do you dare me?”

      “Yes, I dare you.”

      Pepère unlaced his shoes and shed his socks. Pock turned his head, seemingly baffled as he observed Pepère, wading with his pants rolled up in the shallow pond.

      “You should join me.  It’s great.”

      “I think I will.”

      Gigi quickly kicked off her fisherman’s sandals and knee-high socks, putting her big toe into the water.

      “Ooh là là, it’s colder than it looks.”

      “Just jump in,” Pepère said. “You’ll get used to it.”

      Gigi put both feet in and emitted a little shriek, but soon she and Pepère were laughing and splashing each other in the pond. They begged Pock to join them, but he remained on the sidelines, prancing around in circles and barking.

      “Minnows are nibbling at my feet,” Pepère said, giggling. He hopped from one foot to the other.

      “Me, too,” Gigi said. “They tickle.”

      After cavorting in the pond, they tip-toed out of the water, trailing wet foot prints on the garden path. They sat down on a wooden bench covered with carvings of lover’s immortalized tributes of devotion. She read one large lover-boy’s carving, Devin loves Babette always. Gigi wondered if a boy would ever do the same for her.

      Songbirds dominated over the distant roar of the city. Gigi leaped off the bench, bare feet on the pebble path. Her attention was drawn to a rare spotted orchid in bloom, hanging from a low tree branch.

      Pepère gazed upon her and laughed when he realized they were now both the same size.

      “What’s so funny Pepère?”

      “You are growing up too fast. Soon, you’ll be too busy for our walks in the garden.”

      Gigi returned to Pepère, and took his hand. “Pepère, our time in the garden is my favorite pastime, and you won the best grandfather contest a long time ago.”

      “You’re going to give me a moon-size head,” Pepère said, filling his pipe with the sweet cherry tobacco Gigi loved. “Tomorrow’s the big day for the scholarship. Are you excited?”

      “Everyone at school says I’ll win for sure, but I don’t know . . .”

      “Whether you win or lose the scholarship, I’m still proud of my little butterfly.

      “Pepère, you won’t believe what happened today,” Gigi said. “I fought a bully, and Renée knocked him out with her book bag.”

      “What? Tell me all about it.”

      She related the story of the young boy assaulted by the gang of bullies and Renée slamming the leader’s head with her enormous book bag.

      “I’m glad she’s not fighting for the Germans,” Pepère said.

      Gigi sat on the park bench in deep contemplation, gazing at the botanical paradise. Small iridescent blue-winged butterflies danced a ballet among the flowers. When they closed their wings, their underside colors and designs transformed them, blending.

      “Pepère, am I a métisse?” Gigi asked in a dispirited voice.

      “Where did you hear that word?”

      “That’s what the bully called the young boy. The way he said that word, it sounded horrible. That young boy was Jewish and Catholic like me. Pepère, am I a métisse? You and Papa are both Jewish. Am I that awful word?”

      Pepère was silent for a long moment. Gigi was sorry she had upset Pepère with her question and wished she could take it back.

      “That’s not a nice word to use in polite company,” Pepère said. “Please listen to me Gigi. Ignorant people use that word in a bad way against people, who are of mixed race or religious heritage. When you were born, your mother and father decided you would be baptized Catholic. You don’t understand now, but their decision might save your life one day.”

      Gigi walked to a low branch with the azure butterflies resting in the sun. Upon her approach, they flew around her as if she were a sweet flower full of nectar, some settling on her shoulders.

      “Pepère, why is there so much hatred against Jews?”

      “It’s a sad truth about humanity. Some people need other people to look down upon. Just be proud of who you are: the most beautiful, artistically talented girl in all of Paris. My best advice is to ignore silly people who use harmful, stupid words to make themselves feel superior. We’re living in France. It’s not perfect, but as long as we live in France, we’ll be fine.”

      “Thanks,” Gigi said. “I feel better now.”

      Pepère fumbled in his pocket and extracted a gold necklace. The circular mount was crested with a Star of David, swinging on a delicate gold chain.

      “Gigi, I want you to have this necklace. It was my mother’s, and it belonged to her mother before her.”

      “It’s lovely,” Gigi said, sitting still while Pepère fastened the clasp at the back of her neck. Gigi admired the goldsmith’s intricate workmanship.

      “I’ll adore wearing it,” Gigi said, passing the chain between her fingers. I’ll never take it off.”

      “My mother and grandmother are dancing in heaven,” Pepère said.

      Gigi wanted to know more about the history of her great-grandmothers from Kiev, Russia. The adults always spoke of those family members in whispers or the vaguest of terms. When she had asked about them, she met a wall of silence.

      “I’ll treasure the necklace, always,” Gigi said, hugging Pepère.

      They put on their shoes and headed for the front gates, ambling through the winding paths and returning to the main entrance. Gigi grimaced to be in the real world of bustling streets, honking horns and car exhaust. Pock led the way.

      She and Pepère held hands and strolled down the street. It would be the last time they ever shared in the Jardin des Plants.

 

On the busy Rue Linné, they walked beneath the high stucco wall of the public garden with its curving designs of mosaic stonework. In the sweltering heat of the late afternoon, people greeted them from balconies and open windows. The tenants appeared on their small balconies with their eyes closed, as if in silent pray for a cool breeze, listening to the music from their radios and sipping wine.

      “Bonjour Monsieur Carriton, Mademoiselle Gigi,” said a neighbor fanning herself with a folded copy of Le Monde. “I detest this heat. We’d have to move to hell to cool off.”

      “That’s where all the fun people go,” Gigi said. “I bet we’d have a good time.”

      Madame Camille cackled and drained her wine glass in one long draught.

      As they passed a row of pastel apartment buildings, Pepère and Gigi paused to feast at the sight of colorful flowers, spilling from a curved metal flower box, before making a detour onto the quieter side street.

      Gigi knew well from past experience Pepère’s destination: Le Refugee bar. A glass of wine shared with his old buddies Loup and Souri was his usual afternoon custom. It flashed through Gigi’s mind, I should be home helping Maman with dinner. However, as soon as Pepère and Gigi arrived at the entrance of the bar with its red awning and large wooden doors opened to the street, she lost track of time.

      Pepère’s buddies Loup and Souris were seated at a table on the sidewalk, drinking wine and playing a game of dominos. Pepère’s old buddies passed long hours playing with Pepère, who usually won to their chagrin.

      “Shiker, you old Jew, come play a game with us,” Loup said. “We need someone we can beat.” He loved to tease Pepère, and the banter was equal.

      Gigi bent down and kissed both men on the cheeks. Loup made a face like he was out of his head in love with Gigi. The older widows of Les Gobelins still found Loup attractive with his thick wavy silver hair, clear blue eyes and firm jaw line. In his younger days, Loup had fought many fights over women in barrooms with his thick fists that broke quite a few noses. Nowadays, his supreme pleasure was a long afternoon nap.

      “Mademoiselle Gigi, what on earth is a pretty little girl like you doing with this old goat?” Loup teased. “He could easily be mistaken for Zeus.”

      “I’m with the most handsome man in Les Gobelins,” Gigi said proudly, arm-in-arm with Pepère.

      “You two sewer rats, I think I saw the gendarmes coming this way to arrest you for loitering and public intoxication,” Pepère said, moving a domino piece on the board for Souri.

      “You mean I’m going to jail again?” Souri asked. He laughed, realizing he was just being tipsy and dim. His fat cheeks rolled and jiggled, scrunching his small mousey eyes together. The glass of wine he was holding bounced with the rhythm of his laughter and dribbled onto his green plaid vest. His girth was almost as wide as his height. Souri was Loup’s sidekick, and was always ready to profit with one of Loup’s discarded woman, which unfortunately, nowadays, never happened. He knew he was a bit of a slob and contented himself to settle for Loup’s crumbs.

      The neighborhood children were playing in the tree-lined park across the street from Le Refugee. When the children spotted Pepère and Gigi, they didn’t hesitate to run across the street to greet them. The boys in their short pants and sandals jumped up and down in excitement.

      “Monsieur Carriton, Monsieur Carriton, please do a magic trick for us,” they begged. “We’ve been extra good.”

      “You’ve all been very good,” Pepère said, pulling a deck of cards from his jacket pocket. “Bon, let’s see what magic is in the cards.”

      “Raise your hands if you believe in magic,” Gigi said. Ten arms shot straight up to the cirrus clouds.

      Pepère pulled out three playing cards from his pocket: a red queen of diamonds, a red queen of hearts and a red ace of diamonds. He shuffled the cards several times and reversed them, displaying them twice as red cards. His hands became a blur, and then he finished with quick circular motions. The open-mouthed children stood transfixed as Pepère revealed the cards. The red queens had become black queens and the red ace had changed to a black ace of clubs. Loup looked at Souris with a doubtful face, shaking his head.

      “Our old buddy, Shiker, thinks he’s so clever. He does fancy card tricks, showing off to any audience,” Loup said.

      Loup, deep in his heart, believed his friend to be a master illusionist, but he would never admit the fact.

      “Soon he’ll be headlining at Les Folies Bergère,” Souris said, roaring with laughter and spilling more wine on the domino board.

      “I played there from 1930 to 1934,” Pepère said, returning the cards to his jacket pocket. Eyes popped wide open. Even Gigi was unaware of Pepère playing at the infamous cabaret.

      The children giggled and clapped their hands in delight. A small curious girl with long dark hair covering the back of her green and pink floral print dress, searched the sleeves of Pepère’s jacket, determined to find the red cards somewhere up his sleeve.

      Gigi beamed and felt a surge of pride to have such a talented grandfather.

      “My Pepère has performed in cabarets all over Paris,” Gigi bragged to the children.

      Pepère took the children to Monsieur Neubert’s candy shop and bought them a large bag of candy scraps. The gooey sugary confection soon covered the children’s hands and faces.

      Gigi wandered into the park and watched the lovers stroll by hand-in-hand. She felt a strange longing for Jacques, wishing they were embraced like the strolling lovers. The deep affection she felt for him was more than a crush and felt waves of emotion every time she was near him.

      Gigi watched Monsieur Albert, the accordionist, run his nimble fingers over the ivory keys of his red and silver accordion, playing the romantic song, Mon Amant de St. Jean, to a circle of attentive listeners, swaying in time with the music under the shade of a large chestnut tree.

      “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Gigi, how’s our little artist today?” Monsieur Albert greeted. “My wife loved the painting you did of me. She framed your beautiful painting in a gold frame and it’s now hanging in our salon.” He reached into his tip box, still keeping one hand playing on the keyboard, and gave Gigi a fifty-franc note.

      “This is for your art,” Monsieur Albert said, continuing to play.

      “This is too much, Monsieur Albert,” Gigi said.

      “When you are famous, I can say I have one of Mademoiselle Gigi’s earliest works.”

      “Merci bien, Monsieur Albert.”

      Gigi stared at the note as if she had been given a million francs. She was filled with gratitude and amazement. Art was her passion. To Gigi, it was unbelievable that she would receive money for her art. Can you actually receive money for what you love to do?

      “Thank you a thousand times, Monsieur Albert,” Gigi said. “This is the first money I’ve ever received for my art. I’ll collect money for you while you play.” Gigi walked from person to person, collecting francs and coins in Monsieur Albert’s glass tip jar. When someone gave an enormous tip, she crossed her eyes and made a funny face. The tip jar soon overflowed.

      Gigi closed her eyes and lost herself in the music as the late afternoon sun rays warmed her face and the tender words of the love song melted her heart.

      Gigi danced by herself in time with the music in the center of the small audience. Pock was content at her side, receiving gentle pets from the dark-haired girl in the green and pink floral print dress. Pock maintained his loving gaze on Gigi’s face.

      “It’s getting late, my little butterfly,” Pepère said, as he broke the trance of the music.

      “What time is it, Pepère?” He pulled his gold pocket watch out of his vest pocket and clicked the time stopper.

      “It’s after six. It’s time to go home.”

      “Oh Pepère,” Gigi said. “Maman will be furious with me.”

      “Don’t worry, my darling,” Pepère said. “I’ll tell her I was the guilty one who kept you out too long.”

      Gigi said goodbye to Monsieur Albert, Loup and Souri.

      “Be good, Loup,” Gigi said.

      “The purpose of my life is to serve as a bad example to others,” Loup said.

      “You’re doing a great job,” laughed Gigi.

      Pepère, Gigi and Pock passed shops closing for the day and greeted familiar faces carrying heavy sacks of groceries, but they did not pause to chat.

      They reached Gigi’s address and entered through the ornate doors of the apartment building.

      Pepère took Gigi’s hand as they went through the marble foyer and up to the fifth floor in the tiny art deco style elevator. Since Gigi had pulled her first baby tooth for the tooth fairy, she had always admired the frosted glass, art deco designs of peacocks and chrome fleur de lis trim. Pepère checked his pocket watch and sighed. The tiny elevator seemed to take forever, inching to the fifth floor.

      “This elevator is so slow, it would’ve been faster to scale the outside of the building,” Pepère quipped.

      “I could just see Pock in mountain climbing gear,” Gigi replied, giggling.

      The heavy elevator gate opened leadenly. Pock ran down the shared hallway past the neighbors’ ornate doors to the Carriton family apartment. Pock scratched at the door. He pranced and paused to turn around to monitor Pepère and Gigi’s progress.

      “What is going on with Pock?” Gigi said as she looked for the apartment key. Gigi had the good fortune to have parents who supported her dream of attending the Academy des Beaux Arts. It was never a question that their only daughter would receive the very best art education possible.

      The large iron key opened the latch and all was quiet except for Pock’s paws on the shiny, hardwood floors as he ran down the hallway with its elegant cove ceilings and pieces of impressionist artwork on the frescoed walls. At the end of the hall was a large rococo gold leaf mirror with a matching stand to receive hats, gloves and umbrellas. Gigi thought it was curious that there were more hats than usual on the hooks and that a pair of lady’s green velvet gloves and purse, she had not seen before, lay on the stand.

      Turning the corner to enter the dining room, the first thing she noticed were the decorations on the dining room table with a large hand printed sign in bold letters: Felicitations Gigi.

      “Surprise!” shouted Gigi’s family as they jumped out from their hiding places behind the drapes, the furniture and the potted palms. Everyone greeted Pepère and Gigi with warm hugs and kisses. Pock danced in circles and barked his approval.

      “All this is for me?” Gigi asked.

      “Of course, Madame Picasso,” Papa said, hugging her and lifting her off her feet. “You don’t think we were going to let such an important event go by without a party.”

      “But I haven’t won yet,” Gigi replied.

      Gigi regretted telling Papa and Maman that she was favored to win the scholarship. It was typical of them to celebrate the event before it actually happened, but she could not blame them because she had failed to mention that the selection committee had asked for her baptismal certificate. If they dug a little deeper, they would discover her Jewish roots.

      Gigi’s Papa, Simon, was dressed in a white shirt with his tie loose around his neck.  He was handsome, short and solidly built and at the threshold of middle-age. His dark black hair was still thick and combed straight back from his handsome smooth face. Gigi’s Papa could barely change a light bulb, but was a savant with numbers. He held the position of chief financial executive and partner for a growing aircraft parts company. Papa had a well-established routine of keeping late hours conducting business and later relaxing in the infamous red light district of Pigalle.

      Tonton Andre stood in the corner of the salon, gossiping family history with Tante Aline. “Who was Pepère’s first wife before Deanna?” he asked.

      Tante Aline divulged the details for her husband.

      “Rose, was Pepère’s first wife. She was an actress and ran away with a second-rate matinee actor. Rose told everyone she was answering the call of her fans. Believe me when I tell you her fans were few. Simon was only eleven at the time.”

      Gigi overheard the conversation between Tante Aline and Tonton Andre. She did not like people talking about her father or grandfather. Gigi wondered if Tante Aline was going to spoil the evening, nattering in the corner.

      “Why the long face, chérie?” asked Papa.

      “I was expecting to be in trouble for being late,” Gigi lied to Papa.

      “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours,” Papa soothed. He picked up Pock, fluffing his fur, which made Pock grind his hind leg and scratch at thin air.

      “What bones will dogs never eat?” Papa asked.

      “I don’t know, Papa.”

      “Trombones,” Papa said, laughing hysterically.

      “Papa, that’s silly,” Gigi said, slipping her arm into Papa’s.

      Pepère could not be outdone by his son, so the joke competition commenced between the two of them.

      Pepère told the joke, “A grasshopper walks into a bar and the bartender says, ‘did you know there’s a drink named after you?’ The grasshopper says, ‘there’s a drink named Michel?’” The family prodded one joke after another out of Pepère and Papa. After everyone was dry and thirsty with laughter, Papa conceded his father was the King of the Joke tellers.

      “Papa, you always tell the best jokes,” Gigi’s father said.

      “I wondered why we lingered in the park so long,” Gigi said, greeting the guests. “Pepère kept all the neighborhood children entertained with a magic show.”

      “I bet every kid from the neighborhood was there,” Papa said, opening a bottle of Pernod for his guests.

      “We tied a red lantern to the balcony to notify Pepère when we were ready,” Maman said, giving Pepère’s hand a squeeze.

      “I’m sure some of our neighbors have already started gossiping about a bawdy house,” Papa laughed.

      “I smell opportunity,” Maman joked.

      Gigi’s mother always wore an attractive dress with the highest heeled shoes money could buy from Les Galeries Lafayette department store to augment her small stature.

      The party moved from the dining room to the salon with its stylish crown moldings, sumptuous comfortable furnishings and large marble fireplace. The guests found their seats on two tapestry Victorian sofas arranged perpendicular to the fireplace. Natural light poured into the salon through floor-to-ceiling windows, and French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the neighborhood.

      Maman and Deanna served trays of prosciutto, cornichons, red radish rosettes, and small Italian sausages to the guests from a silver tray. Papa played host with cornichon pickles sticking out his ears, offering aperitifs to the adults and even some champagne for Gigi and Jacques.

      “Simon, I always knew your brain was pickled,” Tonton Andre said. “Now I’ve the proof.”

      Tante Aline crowned Gigi with a rhinestone crown, and everyone donned festive party hats. Tante Aline put a hat on Jacques. “I am so thankful my baby boy is too young to fight in this awful war.”

      “Stop calling me that!” Jacques snapped and then sulked in a corner.

      Papa tried to lighten the mood with some music and found a radio station playing a Charles Trenet song “La Mer” on the Perfecta radio. Tonton Andre turned up the volume with the Bakelite knobs.

      “I adore this song,” Tonton Andre said, swaying to the music as he held Tante Aline in his arms.

      Tonton Andre, a quiet man of Swiss origin, enjoyed the advantages of old family money. Jacques was exactly a younger version of his father.

      “Today, you’re a queen,” Tonton Andre said, bowing before a rhinestone-crowned Gigi. He threw a coverlet from the sofa around Gigi’s shoulders and put a large wooden spoon in her hand.

      Gigi waved her spoon scepter. “I want to thank all my loyal subjects for being in attendance tonight,” Gigi said in an affected, pompous voice.  Gigi walked up to Papa and extended her hand. “You may kiss my hand."

      “I’m glad to see you’re not letting your high education interfere with your silliness,” Papa said. “How about kissing my�"”

      “Simon, someone’s at the door,” Maman said.

      A loud prolonged knocking came from the front door. Papa disappeared down the entrance hall and was gone for a long time. Tante Aline gulped her champagne and nervously chewed on a fingernail.

      “Germaine, who’s calling at this hour?” asked Tante Aline.

      “It’s a bit unusual,” Maman said, folding and refolding a napkin.

      When Papa returned, he avoided talking to anyone and went alone to the balcony to smoke a cigarette, while the others sipped on their aperitifs and nibbled hors d’oeuvres.

      Tante Aline persisted, “It’s not like Simon to be secretive, what gives?”

      “It’s probably just business,” Maman said.

      Jacques and Gigi stood side by side, watching his parents dance. Jacques looked straight ahead as his hand found Gigi’s hand and gently enclosed around hers. The tingle and warmth of his fingers ran over her hand, sending warmth over her entire body. Gigi was tired of being on the sidelines and dragged Jacques to dance.

      “Come on, Jacques, it’s not going to kill you to dance,” Gigi said, teasing.

      Dancing stiff and awkward, he was relieved when Maman announced dinner is served.

      Papa rejoined the others, and the family seated themselves at the dining room table set with Maman’s best bone china, Mémère Marie’s silver and a centerpiece of Gigi’s favorite yellow roses. Maman and Deanna served French onion soup for the start of the meal.

      “Bon Appetite, everyone,” Pepère said, evoking everyone to raise their glass and toast.

      Questions flew in Gigi’s direction about the Academy des Beaux Arts. “Tell us about Beaux Arts?” asked Tonton Andre. “Is it expensive?” asked Jacques. Tante Aline interrupted Gigi changing the subject as soon as she began speaking.

      “I am looking forward to getting out of Paris,” Tante Aline said. “We need to talk about our summer holiday to the Cote d’Azur.”

      “Simon, tell me who was at the front door?” Maman inquired out of the blue. Papa was mute for a minute, but finally replied.

      “It was our neighbors, the Gervaerts. They’re leaving and want us to feed their cat.”

      “Why are they leaving?” inquired Maman. Gigi’s father was silent as he sipped his soup. He appeared deaf to his wife’s questions.

      “Simon?”

      “Okay, the Germans are on their way to Paris,” Papa said. “It’s rumored the city is going to be bombed�"they’re leaving and not coming back.”

      Gigi and Jacques’ eyes widened.

      “That’s right,” Tonton Andre said, buttering a slice of bread. “The Gare Austerlitz was packed this afternoon with people taking trains south. I didn’t want to say anything, but I think it would be a good idea if we all considered leaving soon. Simon, you have places you and your family can stay in Briare or Lyon. If you wait too long, it could be too late.”

      The party was dulled by the sobering news of the approaching war, even though the flourish of fish and red meat courses satisfied everyone’s palette along with the best vintages of white and red wines. Papa took out two large carving knives and sharpened the blades against each other before he cut thin slices of Gigot, which Maman had served with white beans and a bottle of the finest Bordeaux. Gigi’s father continued to serve the portions of Gigot without any sign he was disturbed by the advent of war.

      “Well done or rare?” he asked Deanna, posing the knives over the gigot.

      “I heard the government is packing up the official archives and moving south,” Tonton Andre said.

      “Why is there nothing about this in the newspapers?” asked Deanna.

      “It’s a scandal,” Maman huffed.

      “The Reynaud government doesn’t want us to know how bad things really are,” Tante Aline said, chewing on her slice of Gigot with her mouth open. “I for one am not going to remain here and be a sitting duck for Hitler’s bombs. I think we should all board a train for the south tomorrow. Germaine, Simon, you know well it could be bad for Jews.”

      Gigi’s father sat a long moment while everyone awaited his response. He looked to the ceiling and raised his glass as if proposing a toast.

      “I’m not going to run like a scared little rabbit,” Papa said. “When Hitler’s bombs start hitting me on the head, then I’ll be ready to leave.”

      There was a long silence from the family. The knives and forks were silent and no one took a bite of food. Suddenly, whether it was funny or not, everybody burst into laughter until their sides hurt. Papa made a funny face and rubbed the top of his head like it was sore from one of Hitler’s bombs. Gigi begged him to stop. The festive mood returned to the party with an abundance of gaiety.

      “The Germans don’t scare me,” Papa said. “We held them back in the First War�"we can do it again.” Everyone cheered and refilled their glasses.

      The diners finished with courses of salad, a ripe Roquefort cheese and a chambertin Clos de Beze. Papa ate the smelly cheese and drank the chambertin with such a serious manner it bordered on the religious. Gigi had seen her father’s end-of-dinner ritual hundreds of times.

      When Maman presented the flaming baba au rhum cake, it evoked applause. She gave the first piece to Gigi and kissed her forehead.

      “I’m so proud of you,” Maman said, kissing the top of her daughter’s forehead. “May all your dreams come true, chérie.”

      “Maman, I forgot to tell you�"“

      Pepère stood up and raised his glass. “I would like to propose a toast.” Everyone raised their glasses. Tante Aline refilled hers to the top and, being a bit drunk, spilled wine on her plate.

      “My little butterfly, you have studied diligently. We know for certain you are going to be a success at Beaux Arts, because everything you do, you do with a profound passion. We all love you. Tchin, Tchin!” Soon the family was in dessert ecstasy as the moist delicious cakes slices quickly disappeared from the silver cake platter.

      “Merci, Pepère,” Gigi said, “especially for the gift of great grandmother’s necklace.”

      Gigi revealed the necklace to the family. All the family admired the gift except for Tante Aline, who never let an opportunity pass to voice her negative opinion.

      “In these bad times for Jews, it might be wise to wear that necklace out-of-sight inside your blouse.”

      Gigi’s mother and Deanna cleared the table with the help of Tante Aline. There was a mountain of dirty dishes, pots and pans and other culinary utensils in view when the kitchen door swung open. Gigi excused herself from her guests in the salon to assist washing the dirty dishes. Gigi entered the kitchen and donned an apron ready to help.

      “No, chérie,” Maman said. “Go enjoy your time with your cousin.”

      “I don’t mind,” Gigi said.

      “Clear out,” Maman said, giving her a gentle shove out of the kitchen.

      Gigi left the kitchen and found Jacques playing with Pock on the balcony. Pock displayed his latest trick of standing on his back legs and dancing in circles. Jacques and Gigi made themselves comfortable, sitting together in a large chair that accommodated them both, surrounded by Maman’s potted flowers. Jacques put his arm around Gigi, and she gently rested her head on his shoulder. Pock jumped onto their laps and curled up snuggly.

      “I can’t wait to take you riding on my new bike during our summer holiday,” Jacques said.

      “That will be a lot of fun, but what about the war, Jacques?” Gigi asked. “Do you think the Germans are going to bomb Paris?”

      “Absolutely not, they’re way outnumbered,” Jacques said. “If that were true, do you think we’d be having school tomorrow? Besides, I’m planning on racing my bike tomorrow at the end of year school rally.”

      “I’d love to see you race.”

      “Gigi, I want us to be together . . . well, I mean . . . .”

      Maman poked her head in from the salon and interrupted with a cooing sound. “It’s time for presents, my darling.”

      “Presents?”

      Gigi returned to the salon to find brightly wrapped gifts on a table by the fireplace.

      “These are gifts for me?” Gigi asked. “It’s not my birthday.”

      Pepère and Tonton Andre were smoking their Gauloises seated on the sofas by Deanna and Tante Aline. Papa was smoking a pipe and sipping a cognac with his arm resting on the fireplace mantel, complaining about the war and the government’s weak response.

      “The Maginot Line, the Maginot Line!” Papa said, pounding his fist on the mantel. “I’m fed up with that military disaster.”

      “That’s enough of your gloomy talk,” Maman said, handing a brightly wrapped gift to Gigi. “We’ve got presents to open.”

      Gigi seated herself on the sofa between Pepère and Deanna. She opened the gifts with the passion of a young child at Christmas. She thanked everyone for the gifts of drawing pencils, sketch pads, pen and ink kits, and the colored charcoal drawing tools she had been wanting forever. Maman brought her the last present, which was a large flat package wrapped in tissue paper. When she opened the package, she could not believe she was holding an expensive leather art portfolio valise in her hands. If I don’t win the scholarship, all these presents have to be returned.

      “Papa, Maman,” Gigi said. “How can I ever thank you? But I think you ought to know�"”

      “Eh bien, you heard Madame Picasso,” Papa said, turning to everyone present. “When our Gigi becomes rich and famous, she can support her Maman and Papa. Madame Picasso can paint my face in a cubist style like this.” Papa made a contorted, cross-eyed face to emulate the women in Picasso’s painting “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.”

      “Papa, can you hold that pose for a few hours?” Gigi said giggling. “I’ll draw you.”

      Gigi threw her arms around each of the family, freely kissing and thanking everyone. Pock barked for attention.

      “I think this one needs to be walked one last time for the day,” Maman said. Gigi observed Pock staring at the front door. The families concluded the evening, saying goodnight, promising to be on the alert in case they should decide to evacuate the city. Papa disbursed their jackets, hats and purses as Maman planted two kisses on each cheek of each guest.

      Jacques took Gigi’s hand and led her to the balcony before she could say a word. He gave her an awkward teenage boy kiss on the mouth. Then he left and rejoined his parents. Gigi put her hand to her face, still feeling the warmth of his kiss still on her lips.

      She walked with her family and Pock downstairs to bid them all goodnight and watched them all walk down the sidewalk. She sighed and took a deep breath of the warm night air. Walking Pock on his leash, she gazed up to the beautiful nighttime sky brilliant with diamond stars and smelled the sweet scent of bougainvillea in the night air. Her inner being glowed. Gigi thought about the enchanted evening, strolling through the Jardin des Plants with Pepère, the surprise dinner party and her first kiss.

      Gigi wondered if it would be possible to keep the art portfolio valise if she didn’t win the scholarship.

Reviews

[Dennis Ward]

In the tradition of "Suite Française" and "The Book Thief," my book tells the story of Gisele "Gigi" Carriton, a young Jewish girl struggling to survive the Nazi occupation of France. Sometimes comic, sometimes tragic, "Mademoiselle Gigi" will inspire and capture your hearts. Based on true life events of the late Gisele "Gigi" Carriton (1928-2008). The book is my loving tribute to her indomitable spirit. Dennis Ward